The Backseat Is Full
On Dana Street in North Berkeley, unhoused men and women huddled under a church awning in the morning downpour. I looked away, then forced myself to cross the street, raising my voice over the pounding rain.
“This weather is awful,” I said, shivering, water running under my collar, trying to sound casual, though I likely came across as what I was: guilty and entitled.
“This weather is awful,” I said, shivering, water running under my collar, trying to sound casual, though I likely came across as what I was: guilty and entitled.
“Kayaking On Spy Pond,” “Parenting Mistakes,” and “Choices”
I lied when I said he’d been clean for a year.
It made a better story:
Addict resisting the call of meth,
riding the wave when the desire hit,
how big he felt—and bigger.
It made a better story:
Addict resisting the call of meth,
riding the wave when the desire hit,
how big he felt—and bigger.